


Miranda's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day

by Naralanis



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Humor, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda has a rather taxing day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miranda's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day

                To be completely accurate, Miranda’s bad day had technically started the night before. It had started when Andrea had delivered the Book, as she always did. But, unlike other times, Miranda had been non-too-subtly poised in waiting so as to watch the girl’s arrival from the stairs. What she had failed to consider was the possibility; or rather, the certainty that her second-assistant would be able to see her as well. She had been otherwise occupied, not to mention pleasantly distracted. It wasn’t her fault, really; it was quite involuntary. Andrea’s legs went on for miles, her toned calves looking like perfection due to the five-inch Jimmy Choos she wore. Miranda had not even realized she had quite literally frozen the girl where she stood with her gaze; she was only brought out of her trance when she caught herself staring at Andrea’s luscious breasts for an utterly inappropriate amount of time. The girl had clearly caught her too: she squeaked, blushed profusely, deposited the Book on the wrong table and subsequently ran for dear life.

                Miranda would never admit it, but she had also blushed quite a few shades of red. Just great. In her practiced La Priestly countenance, she regally descended the rest of the stairs, gracefully picked up the Book and did her absolute best to pretend it was just another ordinary night. Surely it wouldn’t get any worse. Right?

                Wrong. Because the mock-up of her beloved magazine was probably going on record as one of the worst she had ever seen in the entirety of her career. How had these spreads made it past anyone with a minimum of sentient capability? Good God, if she didn’t know any better, she would think the models were merely lifeless store mannequins. There was absolutely no vivacity, no sign of life, dim as may be. Their sullen features were frustratingly dull, and their eyes held no light. If only they were _that_ particular shade of brown speckled with gold, perhaps framed by rich chestnut tresses… If only their lips were quirkier, fuller, more like Andr—No! Madness! Miranda had proceeded to litter the Book with colourful notes that varied from ‘ _disgraceful’_ to ‘ _vomit-inducing’,_ and finally snapped it closed with an exasperated huff, squashing any further thoughts of her assistant from her deviant mind. What she needed was a good night’s sleep.

                However, as soon as her head hit one of her ridiculously overpriced feather-soft pillows, the image of her bubbly assistant assaulted her dreams with full force. Each and every time, Miranda would awaken with the sheer force of her obstinate willpower and try again, attempting in vain to rein her dreams in. Lucid dreaming was a thing, right? She was Miranda Priestly, for Christ’s sakes, if anyone on Earth had the ability to bend their subconscious to their will, it would be her. Only every time she closed her eyes, images of her assistant in various stages of undress plagued her mind. She had just about given up on controlling the errant recesses of her vivid imagination, letting herself indulge in a particularly lovely scenario that involved a rather underdressed Andrea and those damn Chanel leather thigh-high boots, when the sound of her alarm brought her back to the real world. Cursing the damned piece of technology to the darkest pits of Hell, she resigned herself with a frigid shower. She needed to _focus._

Today was certainly the day the universe had chosen to conspire against her. The heel of her favourite Ferragamo pumps gave out beneath her with no warning as soon as she stepped out of the bedroom, almost sending the ever-so-elegant Editor in Chief ass over tea kettle in what would have been a spectacular tumble down the stairs that had every possibility of culminating with her untimely, disastrous death. Or at the very least it would have severely compromised her skeletal structure with a multitude of fractures. After opting for sturdier Balenciagas, Miranda carefully made her way downstairs just in time to be jumped by her own horse of a dog, who happened to be in an overly playful mood that greatly overshadowed the years and dollars spent in doggy-training. In the span of about two seconds, the massive Saint Bernard had succeeded in effectively ruining Miranda’s trousers with what had to be at least a couple of pints of drool. Once the recalcitrant animal had been properly chastised and banished to the confines of the study, Miranda resigned herself to changing yet another article of clothing, hopefully for the last time today. Just to be safe, she avoided the kitchen, lest the coffeemaker decided to rebel and deface her Valentino blouse in a freak explosion of scalding liquid.

To make matters worse, Roy had been late to the townhouse — some presumptuous pipeline had decided today would be an excellent day to burst with unprecedented flair, which meant that traffic on the way to _Runway_ was grievously stacked bumper to bumper. This unexpected development gifted Miranda with a dangerous amount of time alone with her wayward thoughts that inevitably and inappropriately drifted to her assistant. Just as she had resigned herself to pass the time indulging on some nonsensical game on her phone, the worthless contraption chose to just give up and die. It didn’t matter how much she glared at it in furious contempt; not even her best electrifying glare could bring the impertinent device back to life. What now? She couldn’t risk reviewing the Book, for she feared her focus would stray from the twig-like models toward her shapely assistant. Shapely?!

                It was a long, tedious, and trying ride to _Runway,_ but somehow Miranda managed to survive it. Finally arriving at her hallowed empire, she had to hope that her day would take a turn for the better as soon as she clicked her way into the polished marble lobby of Elias-Clarke— after all, she lived, thrived on hope. Surely sending a few clackers scattering for cover would do the trick in brightening her spirits.

                Miranda took a full breath of fresh air as soon as Roy opened the car door, bracing herself for the day ahead. She _would_ prevail. She was Miranda Priestly. She would be in control as soon as her stilettos hit the concrete.

                Just as Miranda had extricated herself from the sleek Mercedes, just as she was about to waft into her domain with her usual confident stride, she heard an unmistakable muted splatter coming from the vicinity of her left shoulder. Her eyes widened in shock and disgust behind the Chanel lenses, and she was vaguely aware of her driver’s expression of complete and utter terror once he too realised what had just happened. Miranda immediately looked upward with a snarl in search of the insolent bird that had had the gall to tarnish thousands of dollars’ worth of mink and sable. Her perusal of the skies proved futile; there was no sign of the repulsive creature-with-a-death-wish that had dared to defecate on Miranda Priestly. Vowing to exterminate every pigeon residing in New York down to the very last feather, Miranda angrily covered the disgusting, malodorous stain with a Hermès scarf— effectively ruining it along with her exquisite fur coat.

                Her gaze really must have been shooting daggers, which was one blessing in this miserable morning that had really only just started. Clackers scattered away in terror as Miranda glided into the lobby in silent fury. The scowl she sported was only more pronounced as an unwitting assistant to some other executive attempted to squirm his way into the elevator right before it closed, only to realise its occupancy with a strangled gasp. Miranda glared at the insolent boy from behind her lenses, sending him backpedalling in terror. She impatiently jammed the button for floor 17, only relaxing once the doors finally slid shut.

                The Elias-Clarke elevators were not exactly known for their speed, but even then, this particular metal box seemed to be taking much longer than usual, which did not serve to improve the mercurial Editor’s mood at all. She glared at the numbers that changed on the panel at a snail’s pace, resisting the urge to tap her foot as an out for her impatience. _13… 14… 15… 16…_

                The elevator suddenly jerked upwards and then downwards again, the lights flickering madly for a few short seconds. It non-too-gently stopped dead on its tracks, nearly toppling the silver-haired woman, bag, Book and all. Honestly, could this day possibly get any worse? Miranda practically smacked the glowing emergency button with a vengeance, glowering at yet another useless piece of technology that seemed determined to test her diminishing patience. Luckily, within only a few moments she could hear harried steps and harsh whispers from the outside of the door, recognizing the British lilt of her first-assistant’s squawks of desperation and another, deeper, unknown voice.

                “Oh. My. God! Ohmygod! Get this lift fixed _right this minute!”_

                “Hey, lady, I’m no miracle worker. It’s gonna take a few minutes at least, chill out.” Spoke the deeper voice, no doubt belonging to some dim-witted, moronic maintenance worker.

                “Chill out?! _Chill out?!_ I’ll have you know that Miranda _Bloody_ Priestly is in this lift, and if you value your bollocks and your life, you’ll get her out _now!_ ”

                The man gave a rather undignified squeak of horror once Emily filled him in on who exactly was locked in this ludicrous death trap. There was a sound of static, possibly from a radio, along with more hurried steps and the rush of bodies shuffling down the hall, no doubt preparing for Miranda’s impending foul mood due to the elevator mishap. If only it were only that, Miranda mused, thoroughly irked by how her day was going so far. Before too long, the lift clanged back to life, and within two seconds the doors dinged open. Miranda stepped out as if nothing had happened, aware of her senior-assistant’s gawk that anticipated the storm that was about to come.

                “Get that incompetent fool in charge of the elevators fired. Then I want you to confirm my brunch with Lagerfeld for tomorrow, and for the love of all that is holy, tell him for the last time I will not have that vapid little chit on my magazine and that is final. Get the girls flowers for their recital today, no freesias or carnations, something like lilies will do, but please make it tasteful or I’ll have that florist blacklisted. Then get Jocelyn in here, and tell her if I see anything reminiscent of a Lady Gaga music video on her spread again she will find herself without a job. Get reservations for me and the girls at that restaurant they like for Saturday, then call the mayor and demand he do something about this city’s abominable pigeon problem… And take care of this coat and scarf, dry-cleaners, incinerator, I don’t care. Also, schedule another session of training for Patricia, and not with that company, they are entirely useless. Where on Earth is my coffee?!”

                Emily discreetly cracked the joints of her tired wrist after she wrote down every single demand Miranda spouted as soon as she had stepped off the elevator. She chose to ignore the fact that her boss had unceremoniously tossed her coat and bag onto her desk, focusing instead on the endless list. She was sure there was a mention of an incinerator and a pigeon problem, whatever that was, but she was not suicidal enough as to ask Miranda what in the bloody Hell that meant. Her co-worker might be, however, if she didn’t get there in the next minute or so.

                “She should be here soon, Miranda. Is there anything else?”

                “Why are you still here? Haven’t you got tasks to do?” Miranda snapped, slamming the door to her office shut in an uncharacteristic tantrum. Although her coffee had yet to arrive, at least her desk was neatly organized, and by the grace of a God, or rather, her second assistant’s, her Pellegrino was primed and ready. The Editor gracefully sunk into her chair, taking the chilled glass of water while she busied herself with analysing the rival publications methodically stacked at the corner of the gleaming glass surface. She was just through a fantastically preposterous spread on _Vogue_ — which did wonders for her mood— when she heard the incessant bickering of her assistants at the outer office.

                “Good morning, Emily, isn’t it a wonderful day?” called Andrea’s bright, cheery voice. Usually Miranda found it soothing, but today it was just one more thing to grate on her nerves. At least someone was having a good day.

                “What have you been smoking, you daft cow?! Where have you been?! She’s looking for a body!” screeched Emily.

                “Geez, take a chill pill, Em.” Andrea retorted, unfazed by the redhead’s overbearing panic.

                “No. Shan’t. Now _go!”_

Miranda could almost feel the eye-roll the brunette had undoubtedly directed at the other assistant. At least their antics, although nearly always bordering on irritating, never failed to bring a smirk to her lips. Masking her amusement, Miranda focused intently on the magazine in front of her, intent on ignoring her second assistant. As the girl clicked her way into the office, however, it was all the Editor could do to supress a gasp when she caught a glance of those enticing thigh-high boots. Miranda concentrated on controlling her breathing as the girl, completely oblivious to her plight, took her sweet time with setting the center-of-the-sun hot cup of Starbuck on the desk. She hoped the girl didn’t notice as her eyes inexplicably darted to the elegant, delicate fingers that grasped the cup and released it, subsequently interlacing with the ones from the other hand.

                “Is there anything else you need, Miranda?” the brunette asked. Was her voice always that husky??

                Miranda forcibly tore her eyes from the girl’s strangely erotic hands to look her in the eye.

                She immediately regretted her decision.

                Besides an annoyingly smug smile, the brunette wore an unusually daring blouse; it was practically sheer with a plunging, sensuous neckline, which gave Miranda a lot more to look at than the La Perla lace that covered the young woman’s voluptuous cleavage. An atypical whimper escaped Miranda’s throat quite against her will, and she could only hope that the woman standing in front of her with a falsely innocent expression had not heard it.

                “Miranda?” Andrea asked, quirking an eyebrow in _amusement._

                “That’s all.” Miranda managed to rasp, impatiently dismissing the girl with a flick of her wrist, waiting until she was settled at her own desk to get her breathing under control again. Momentarily forgetting her coffee, she took a healthy swig of her water, sending a prayer heavenward so she could have the strength to survive the day.

                “Andrea” Miranda called out after a few minutes “Get everyone together, move the run-through up to _now.”_ She said, eager to have some distraction. Hopefully Jocelyn’s ridiculous selections would take her mind off her curvaceous assistant.

                As luck would have it, Jocelyn’s selections were simply atrocious. Even Nigel seemed to be off his game, and Serena was timidly standing back, afraid to upset the Dragon even more. Of course, ordinarily she would be looking into ways of disposing of their lifeless bodies, but today she was glad to have more reason than usual to resort to her sharp tongue-lashing.

                “Why isn’t anyone ready? Is it really that hard to get acceptable pieces ready when we need them? Am I reaching for the stars here? No, not really. I swear, if I see another one of those dreadful skirts, heads will roll.”

                Her employees looked to be suitably petrified with terror, which improved her mood somewhat. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to last. Right when she was in the middle of giving Jocelyn a fainting-worthy dressing down, Andrea swooped into the office, with some urgent prints and faxes. The clumsy assistant seemed to trip, apparently over thin air, scattering the papers in every direction. Miranda sent her one of her best glares, and the rest of the occupants of the room looked appalled at the incident, which in their minds would probably make Miranda blow a gasket.

                “Whoops. Clumsy me.” Andrea declared merrily, rolling her eyes at her own clumsiness. Without a moment’s hesitation, the brunette simply leaned over and began collecting the disarray of papers from the floor, to the astonishment of her co-workers.

                Miranda could only stare as the cheeky girl completely bent over in what was obviously the least possibly practical position to gather the mess of papers, but gave everyone in the room quite a show. The Editor gulped audibly as the fabric of her assistant’s skirt strained against her curves. The entire room was silent, until Miranda realised they were all staring. In a bout of misplaced possessiveness, she shot a death glare towards her minions.

                “That’s all.” She rasped for the second time that morning, effectively sending her staff scattering away for their lives. By then Andrea had gathered all the papers and placed them on Miranda’s desk, again with that smug little smile tugging at her lips as she faced the Editor.

                “Anything else, Miranda?”

                All Miranda could do was shake her head in the negative, supressing the shiver that the brunette’s low purr sent down her spine. She was in absolutely no condition of playing this game; her sanity would certainly give out before noon today. Sticking her head out of her office like a bloody coward, she spoke to Emily, deliberately ignoring her second assistant.

                “Emily, you’re with me for the rest of the day. Andrea will take your errands. And for Heaven’s sakes, have her go to the Closet and change that outfit.”

                Emily’s immediate smugness at Miranda’s sudden wish to have her by her side was promptly wiped off her face when the brunette seemed unperturbed by the uncharacteristic request. Instead, the second assistant simply smiled as she stood to go to the Closet, stretching her arms upwards before speaking to her co-worker.

                “What a great morning, right, Em?” she said brightly, finally clicking her way out of the outer office.

                While Emily gawked in confusion at the brunette’s wake, Miranda ran a hand through her silver coif, her breathing at long last evening out with the girl’s departure. She quickly began spewing orders to the puzzled redhead, eager to make her way out of the building before the second assistant returned from the Closet. With any luck, she would not see the girl again today.

                As luck would have it, Miranda did not see even a shadow of her second-assistant for the rest of the day, as the girl had been riddled with errands that kept her at a safe distance from the Editor at all times. It did not matter that Miranda already had about three dozen skirts from Calvin Klein, Andrea was more than happy to strut around New York, laden with bags. To be on the safe side, Miranda had Emily act as the middleman, dealing with passing her demands along the other assistant. Each time the redhead hung up with Andrea, she would look more confused, and Miranda did her best to ignore the perplexed looks the Brit sent her way occasionally.

                Luck, however, only went so far with insuring a stress-free day for Miranda. True, her second-assistant was nowhere to be seen, but, on the other hand, her second-assistant was nowhere to be seen. Emily was an adequate assistant, but Andrea was practically irreproachable, besides her awakened exhibitionist streak. To make matters worse, disaster upon disaster made Miranda want to personally throttle more than a few people; a migraine was already making itself present. James Holt’s new line was absolutely deplorable; there was a ridiculous incident with the printers which jeopardized an entire issue; Patrick had fallen ill with giardia or some other ridiculous disease he picked up in his travels; Annie was in Australia and unreachable to save an important photoshoot; some essential vintage Valentino gowns had been lost due to a grievous misunderstanding, among many other incidents that made Miranda quietly consider an ‘early’ retirement.

                By the end of the day, Miranda had Roy drop Emily off at Elias-Clarke and then drive her directly to the townhouse. She could use a healthy dose of Macallan right this second. Sadly, she insisted no alcohol be kept in the town-car, and was for the first time reconsidering her decision. At least traffic on the way back was nowhere nearly as stagnant as it was in the morning, and she was back at the townhouse in a satisfactory amount of time.

                Once inside, she spared a few seconds to greet her drooling dog, not caring if yet another pair of trousers was ruined in the process. She found comfort in the slobbery welcome, and promptly toed off her uncomfortable shoes as she padded her way to the study. It was late, and the Book would be delivered soon. After last night’s pathetic attempt at the construction of a passable magazine, she was not exactly looking forward to reviewing tonight’s mock-up. Her staff had the rather vexing habit of messing things up. Maybe she should fire the entire Art Department.

                Miranda had lost track of time, swirling the expensive spirit into the cut crystal tumbler, sipping occasionally. Her migraine was gone, so at least there was that. She heard the door unlocking, along with the clicking of heels and the shuffling of her dry-cleaning. Closing her eyes, Miranda quietly counted Andrea’s steps on the polished hardwood floors. Three steps toward the closed, two in, two out, five up to the table with the flowers. To her surprise, however, the click-clack of her assistant’s shoes did not stop where they were supposed to. Instead of wondering what on Earth the girl was doing, however, Miranda found herself wondering what shoes the girl wore, because that sound certainly did not belong to the thigh-high Chanel boots she wore earlier that day.

                Before Miranda could ponder further, the steps made their way into the study, towards the couch she was sat at. She opened her eyes, fully prepared to send the girl a full-blown glare for her impertinence. That was her intention. However, Miranda almost forgot her own name for a fraction of a second once she looked at her assistant, who, following her orders, had changed out of the short skirt and thigh-highs.

                Andrea now wore a scandalous Gaultier bustier that clung to her every curve. The five-inch Prada pumps made her stocking-clad calves look like sculpted marble, and following those long legs, Miranda saw the hint of lace of garter belt peeking out from an even more sensual skirt. The Editor’s throat was suddenly parched as the girl bent over and deposited the Book on the coffee table, her breasts almost popping out of the confines of the bustier as she did so. Miranda gazed into Andrea’s mocha brown eyes, noting her pupils were dilated. She could feel the rush of blood from her chest and cheeks, noting how the girl seemed to be in a similar state. The two women looked at each other intently for a few moments, their breaths shallow.

                “Anything else you need, Miranda?” Andrea husked, still slightly bent over, giving Miranda an impressive view of her cleavage.

                Miranda snapped.

                Before either of them could think about it twice, Miranda lunged forward, gripping Andrea tightly by the hips and pulling her down towards her, back onto the couch. The girl squeaked, but quickly gathered her wits about her, grasping the silver-haired woman by the shoulders as she straddled her.

                “I know what you’ve been doing.” Miranda gasped, trying for a glare and failing miserably.

                “Yeah? Is it working?” Andrea panted, subconsciously moving her hips, grinding into the older woman.

                “Yes.” Was Miranda’s murmured answer.

                “Thank God” the brunette moaned, capturing Miranda’s lips with her own as she dug her hands into silver hair, deepening the kiss when Miranda reciprocated enthusiastically.

 

* * *

 

 

                Miranda woke up with the mantle clock chiming midnight. She was vaguely aware of a weight on her chest, as well as her lack of clothing and that of her companion’s. Upon further inspection, she noticed they were both sprawled on the study’s fluffy rug in a tangled mess of limbs. Clothes were strewn about the room, shucked away in fits of passion. She vaguely remembered the sound of fabric being ripped directly from their bodies, and could not help her smirk. They had probably destroyed more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of couture, and she could not bring herself to care.

                A gentle caress at her side told her that her lover was awake. She tightened her hold of the brunette, drawing a satisfied sigh from the girl in her arms.

                “Today’s been just wonderful.” Andrea murmured against her chest.

                Miranda could not help a bark of laughter, which prompted Andrea to raise her head and look at her, an eyebrow quirked in confusion.

                “What’s so funny?” she asked in earnest.

                “Nothing. It’s been wonderful.” Miranda retorted playfully, caressing the young woman’s jawline.

                Yes, wonderful indeed.

 

               


End file.
